Lord of Desire (26 page)

"What of your family?" she asked quietly. "Have you no parents?"

The expression on his scarred young face turned a bit wistful. "I have no father. My mother . . . she was taken away by the French. I do not know what became of her."

"So there was no one else to help you."

"I do not need the help of any but my lord Jafar."

The boy's tone was hostile again, and so Alysson gave up the effort to make him talk or accept a concern that was obviously unwanted. Leaving Mahmoud alone to his tasks, she went to the front doorway of the tent and settled herself there on the carpet.

In the distance, beyond the camp, the immense and uncultivated desert stretched in undulating sweeps—an empty sea of inhospitable yellow sand that appeared harsh and unforgiving to the civilized eye. Not a breath of wind stirred to cool her face, and already a shimmering haze rose from the hot, dry ground. Overhead a burning sun hung in the cloudless sky.

But oddly, the barren land no longer seemed quite as cruel to Alysson as it had just a few moments ago. After hearing of Mahmoud's suffering, she believed the burden of her captivity would not be quite so hard to bear.

An ache welled up in her throat as she remembered the way the child had cowered before her in fear. Nothing she had ever witnessed had made her feel quite so inadequate, quite so full of shame.
And his touching dignity when he declared himself not afraid, even as he tried to hide his crippled leg and horrible scar . . .

Closing her eyes against the memory, Alysson silently made herself another vow. While she was here in this camp, she would do her utmost to make Mahmoud lose his fear of her. Even if she could never hope to win his friendship, she might possibly gain his trust and perhaps alleviate some of his hatred, as well. She could show him that not all Europeans were alike. And if she was persistent enough, eventually she might make Mahmoud lose his hostility toward her. It should not be an impossible task. She had never yet met a male whom she couldn't charm if she tried . . . except his master, that is. But she refused to think about Jafar.

Still, she would have liked to hear the story of how Jafar had saved Mahmoud from the French. Perhaps, like the desert, her Berber captor wasn't quite as cruel as he seemed upon first acquaintance. He evidently cared enough about the boy to see to his welfare. Yet Jafar had hundreds of dependents to care for. How much attention could he give a child who was merely a servant?

How lonely that orphaned child must be, with no family to call his own. What Mahmoud needed was someone like her Uncle Honoré, someone who would give him love and affection simply for himself.

Absently, Alysson found her thoughts drifting to her uncle. She had given him a great deal of trouble over the years, but nothing like this latest debacle of her abduction. He would be frantic with worry for her by now. She would have given anything if she could have spared him that. Anything, even including marrying Gervase and settling down to a staid home life. If she'd done that as her uncle wished, she would not be in this fix now.

Her lips curved in a sad smile as she realized where her thoughts had led her. How delighted her uncle would be to hear of her change of heart. Honors had long wanted her to marry. Indeed, she could almost hear his gruff voice complaining about her refusal to give serious consideration to any of her suitors, and her propensity to drive them away with her unconventionality.

"Bon Dieu!
Why can you not act as the other young girls act—simpering and flirting? How shall I ever marry you off if you never make the effort to curb your wildness?"

And yet for all his bluster, she knew quite well that Honoré only wanted her happiness. He had not pressed her to encourage someone she could not love, not after her first disastrous experience with a suitor. The incident might have left her heart cynically scarred for life, if not for Honoré's wise counsel.

She'd been pursued by the brother of a schoolmate, a belted earl, the month she turned sixteen. She'd been so
grateful
to be noticed by the handsome young lord, so desperate to conform to his aristocratic world after being shunned by it for so long, that she'd believed his protestations of love . . . until she chanced to overhear his comment to his sister. "Once I have control of her fortune, I will no longer have to dance attendance on the common little upstart."

Common little upstart.
The memory still carried a vicious sting.

She'd had Honors to run to, at least. Like a father, he had consoled her and mended her wounded heart and sent her back into the world a little wiser and a great deal more careful. "Someday you will find a man you can love," hed told her then.

He had wanted Gervase to be that man, but had almost despaired that it would ever happen—

Alysson's wistful thoughts were interrupted just then by Mahmoud as he limped past her.

"Mahmoud," she called to him gently.

The boy half-turned, keeping his right cheek averted as he waited.

"Thank you for taking such good care of me."

His dark eyes narrowed in mistrust, but he gave her bow of grudging obeisance. "It is my duty."

"All the same, I thank you. You've made my imprisonment here easier to bear."

The odd look of confusion on the child's face before he turned away almost made Alysson smile.

Her imprisonment
did
seem easier to bear during the next few days. She still refused to speak to Jafar or acknowledge his existence, and the tension she always felt in his presence didn't diminish in the slightest, but remembering what Mahmoud had said about Jafar saving him from torture made Alysson a bit less apprehensive about her own fate. Perhaps Jafar was not the murderous barbarian she had first feared, after all.

Still, there was
a purposefulness
about him, an unwavering determination that almost frightened her.
That,
and a savage quality that seemed an inherent Berber trait.

Pride was also a Berber trait, Alysson decided by the end of her first week in the camp. All the warriors she'd observed possessed it in full measure, but even the few women she'd seen bore themselves with a quiet dignity that she could only admire. Yet Jafar had a regal confidence that belonged only to powerful warlords. That he held complete
control over his fellow Berbers was most apparent when he administered to his tribe. From the rear chamber, Alysson could view the proceedings through a part in the curtain as Mar held audience in his reception room. He sat cross- legged in his desert robes, listening intently without reaction, then speaking in sibilant Arabic or the less guttural Berber. He never raised his voice, never lost control of his emotions, yet his authority was unequivocal, his decisions unquestioned. Alysson had no doubt that his every command was obeyed implicitly.

By observing Jafar during these audiences, or noting when he rode away on some business or other, Alysson was able to piece together the daily fabric of his life.

During the day, the demands on his time were endless. If he wasn't holding audience, he was in council with his lieutenants—preparing for some act of defiancé against the French, Alysson suspected. She paid particular attention during these sessions, though she understood only one word in twenty.

He also spent a large portion of his time riding, whether for work or pleasure she wasn't certain. Sometimes when she sat at the outer door of the tent, observing the camp, she could glimpse Jafar galloping one of his mounts; for some inexplicable reason she had no trouble distinguishing him from all the other tall, fierce, black-robed Berbers. He was always occupied with training his horses, or participating in wild Berber games that were conducted on horseback, or hunting with falcons, if she could judge by the number of small game birds that she sometimes spied tied to his saddle when he returned.

In the evenings, he read, or studied his maps, or readied his weapons. This last activity did nothing to relieve her concern that he was planning some act of war. And always it brought home the fact that he was a savage warlord, with some sinister purpose in mind.

His ruthless determination was ever-present. The only time he shed
it,
it seemed to Alysson, was at prayer. He was not an overtly religious man—most Berbers weren't nearly as devout as the Bedouins, in any case, Alysson remembered hearing. But Jafar performed his devotions with

a
simple sincerity that made her wonder how he could ever wish her harm.

Did
he wish her harm? He had not hurt her physically yet, despite his threat to become her lover. But if he didn't plan to ransom her, what then did he intend to do with her?

She was contemplating that question for the hundredth time late one afternoon as she watched Jafar and his Berber warriors exercising their mounts at the outskirts of the camp. From the shelter of Jafar's tent, shielded from the worst of the sun's glare by the tent wall and a haik covering her head, Alysson could see some two score horsemen showing off their skill. Her guard, Saful, was positioned a discreet distance from her, oiling a rifle, but he seemed to be paying her little attention.

In the distance, the mounted warriors tilted at one another with swords, wheeling and evading, exhibiting their mastery. Others rode at a full gallop and scooped up sashes from the ground. The most picturesque feat, however, was when a horse leapt into the air while its rider tossed his musket high overhead and then caught it again.

Witnessing their marvels of horsemanship, Alysson couldn't fail to be impressed by either the warriors or the splendid horses they rode. Superbly trained, the animals would stop short at a full gallop, or stand quiet when the rider simply dropped the reins.

She knew it had taken years of careful training to manage such responsiveness. During the past week, she'd seen for herself the infinite patience and care the Berbers showed their mounts; apparently the Berbers, like the Bedouin Arabs, loved their horses like children.

But it was Jafar who caught her eye time and time again. A magnificent horseman, he seemed to have been born to the saddle. Not only was he a graceful rider, but his superiority was apparent, even to her untrained eye.

She watched with bated breath the astonishing feats he performed. He would place one hand on the stallion's back and vault over to the other side. Or, putting the animal at full speed, he would disengage his feet from the stirrups, stand up in the saddle, and fire at a mark with the utmost precision.